


vending machines & other things that work fine

by derryfacts2 (winchysteria)



Series: Derry University [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Anal Sex, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, the author is aware that a silicon based lube is best for anal sex but the joke is good so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/derryfacts2
Summary: This is an interlude bonus scene between posts 103 and 104 of the Derry University social media au. We'll call it dubiously canonical, because it's probably mostly what happened, but Eddie's feelings are a little Advanced for that point in the plot, so.follow me on twitter@derryfacts2follow the au@derryuniversity
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Derry University [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758043
Comments: 20
Kudos: 295





	vending machines & other things that work fine

The flamingo lights aren’t that bad. From where Eddie is parked, they look warm more than anything. They’re a little comforting. Things are not all that different outside of the confines of Neibolt Hall; Richie Tozier still has a tendency to spill over his own edges just slightly. Like a coffee ring on a table cloth.

This is not the first time he has paused in a parking lot to ask a guy for his apartment number, but it is the first time he already knows what the guy sounds like when he comes, and doesn’t that just throw a bucket of ice water through Eddie’s chest?

He checks his watch, not because he needs to know the time but because it’s always easier to open the car door afterward, grabs the grocery bag from the passenger’s seat, and steps out.

Richie opens his apartment door when Eddie’s still halfway up the steps and says, quietly, “Hey, man.”

It’s casual in a way Eddie envies. Like they’re about to have a beer and watch basketball rather than have a sexual encounter Eddie has been imagining vividly ever since Richie pulled off, mid-hotel-bathroom-blowjob, to say “ _ Fuck _ me.” Like a command.

He was touching himself, too, and Eddie spilled down his throat in a hurry all of a sudden. Richie meant his mouth, of course, but Eddie had ambition. He clambered into Richie’s lap, the chair complaining under their combined weight, and rocked his hips sharply, biting Richie’s lip to draw out a hiss. “I’m gonna fuck you,” he said, breathing into the hotness of Richie’s mouth. “You want that?”

Richie went over the edge quickly, under the power of that promise and Eddie’s hand awkwardly crammed into his briefs. They had to button his suit jacket over the stain on his shirt.

“Do you want a drink or something?” Richie asks as Eddie steps past him and into the apartment. “I have beer, water—uh, one single bottle of iced tea that the vending machine gave me by accident last week.”

He sounds subdued in a way that Eddie’s not used to, and being in his apartment feels revealing: this place belongs to Richie Tozier as surely as a fingerprint would, or a pair of beat-up sneakers. There are colorful mismatched serving dishes out on the kitchen counter, rather than tucked away in a cabinet; there’s a driftwood coat rack to the right of the door and Richie’s jacket draped over a kitchen chair to the left. Everywhere Eddie looks there’s another nonsensical felt object that he can’t place until he sees the pet dishes against the wall by the counter. It’s loud and bright and warm and cluttered and—Eddie thinks before he can stop himself—kind of lonely.

“You probably hit the wrong button,” he says, glancing back at Richie, who crooks an eyebrow. “On the vending machine. I think the vending machine worked fine.”

Richie’s shoulders sway backwards slightly in a way that communicates an eye roll. “You’re a caricature of yourself, you know that?”

Eddie shrugs. “Water, I guess?” he says, and then watches Richie grab it for him—the space his back takes up as he reaches into the cabinet for a pint glass with a chipping brewery label on the side, the way his forearms move as he twists a tray of ice cubes. Eddie realizes, too late, that the normal thing would have been to sit down: Richie’s eyebrows twitch up when he turns to see Eddie still standing like a paper doll in the no-man’s-land between the kitchen and living room sides of the apartment.

“Thanks,” Eddie says awkwardly, taking the drink, and he settles onto one side of the couch while Richie turns back to the kitchen to grab himself a beer.

“You bring me a present?” Richie says as he sits down, gesturing to the plastic bag still wrapped around Eddie’s wrist.

Eddie feels his face get warm. He sets the bag on the floor. “It’s just, uh, stuff.”

Richie’s face crinkles happily. “Stuff?”

“Yeah, you know, condoms, lube,” Eddie says defensively. “Stuff.”

He takes a long drink of water as Richie reaches out to snatch the bag, trying to push the little flash of embarrassment back down. “I have to know what kind of taste you have, obviously,” Richie says, poking through the contents. “Oh, wow, I didn’t know they would even sell you this many condoms at once.”

“It’s a better deal,” Eddie says compulsively, and takes another drink.

“Yeah, if you actually use them all,” Richie says, and Eddie sees his eyes light up as he grabs the lube. “Oh,  _ this _ has gotten good use. And it’s fancy. Does this say it’s  _ organic? _ Who gives a fuck?”

“It literally goes inside your body, dude.” Eddie punctuates with a hand movement that he’s glad Richie doesn’t look up to see.

“Just use fucking coconut oil if you’re that concerned! Where do you even get this shit?”

“Amazon,” Eddie says, but Richie’s reading the back of the bottle and not paying attention.

“Do you think every organic brand uses the same shitty vector of a leaf?” he says, turning it back over. “Maybe it’s illegal not to. Maybe—”

Eddie sets his drink on the table and grabs Richie’s inner thigh with his condensation-cold hand. Richie’s wearing cotton pajama pants, thin enough that he squeaks a little with surprise. “Maybe they’re all in cahoots,” he says anyway. “Maybe trees are like the Illuminati of the organic product world—”

Eddie leans in to lick the soft spot under Richie’s ear, gives a little tug on his thigh: Richie’s legs fall open easy as anything, and a spark goes through Eddie’s stomach. “You’re  _ so _ annoying,” he hisses, biting Richie’s earlobe.

“—and you have to bear their symbol to claim their protection,” he says, but apparently the bit is over, because he finally turns his head, laughing, for a kiss.

His lips are a little cold, as if from the beer bottle, but when Eddie licks into his mouth, it tastes like toothpaste: he’d been too busy with his joke to actually drink much. He snakes a hand around Eddie’s waist and pulls him closer, but he stays pliant, letting Eddie lead.

Eddie licks the back of Richie’s front teeth, which is something he has imagined but never had the wherewithal to do in the moment. He feels Richie laugh a little, not aloud but down in his chest, and he sucks on Richie’s tongue so that, when Eddie’s hand moves to rest between his legs, Richie’s little choked-off moan travels between them like smoke.

He’s not hard yet; Eddie cups him without any real ambition except to move a little whenever Richie’s breath gets too steady. Things are different when doing this isn’t an emergency, when Eddie’s not angry or particularly keyed-up. The hand on Eddie’s waist traces little arcs into his shirt, back and forth in rhythm with the kiss, and Eddie suppresses a shiver.

The slow-ness, the feel of Richie thickening under his hand, is nice for a minute, but the low hum of Eddie’s arousal wants more, closer, and the position isn’t right. Eddie hitches up one knee, but that makes it worse, and he bites his frustration into Richie’s tongue.

“You wanna—” Richie starts, shifting toward him, and Eddie cuts him off with an impatient  _ mmph. _

When Eddie leans back along the couch cushions, Richie follows, supporting Eddie’s hips with an arm to help him scooch down.  _ Better, _ Eddie thinks, and then he feels the rubber sole of his shoe catch on the arm of the couch.

He stops Richie with a hand to his chest. “Shoes,” he says to Richie’s concerned eyebrows. “Couch.”

Richie pushes himself back, sitting up on his haunches, and giggles. Eddie feels like a filleted fish draped awkwardly over the couch, and he kicks Richie’s ankle spitefully.

“I don’t really give a shit, dude,” Richie says.

“You should,” Eddie says. “You don’t know what I could’ve stepped in on my way here. I could have stepped on a rusty nail. I could give your couch tetanus.”

“I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think that’s how tetanus works,” Richie says, but he reaches down gamely to untie the laces of Eddie’s right shoe.

Eddie huffs. “You are a doctor, and I can untie my own shoes.”

“Ah, but this is faster, and besides, how else would I satisfy my orthopedic insert kink,” Richie says, poking at the Dr. Scholl’s in the bottom of Eddie’s sneaker experimentally.

He pulls off the other shoe and compares them. “Do you wear different ones for each foot? Obsessive.”

“The human body is not perfectly symmetrical,” Eddie says hotly. “I’m trying to keep my original knees past age forty. Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Richie tosses the shoes back over his head, narrowly avoiding the standing lamp behind him. “Why, yes,” he says, putting on a deep lover-boy voice that, God help him, goes straight to Eddie’s dick. He crawls back over Eddie’s body, hovering on his hands, one knee, and a foot braced on the floor because he’s too big for his own couch. “I’m just trying to rile you up to help you get in the headspace.”

“What would help me get in the headspace is if you fucking touched me, Tozier,” Eddie says, and tugs him down.

Richie drops to his elbows gently, tucking his head to catch Eddie’s lips, and there’s a little of his weight behind it but not enough. He’s impervious to pulling on his shirt, to rolling their hips together, so Eddie finally wraps a leg around Richie’s ass to push him down.

He collapses, breathing a little “fuck” into Eddie’s mouth. And this, this is what Eddie wanted: the mass of Richie’s body pressing down, the heat of him. He tilts his head up to kiss deeper, scraping Richie’s tongue with his teeth.

Eddie doesn’t know how long he’s there, feeling the scratch of Richie’s day-old beard against his lips, first, and then against his neck as Richie carefully pulls little gasps out of him with his teeth and tongue. He feels wrapped up in a way that overwhelms his system: there is Richie’s chest, broad and forgiving and moving; there is the back of his neck, soft-scratching against the inside of Eddie’s forearm; his thigh slipping past the inseam of Eddie’s pants, grinding into him. His body forgets what it’s like not to be pressed against Richie’s. Every inch of Eddie’s skin that is not occupied complains of the cold. After a moment, he can’t differentiate between them anymore. It’s like being submerged—in water, in sleep, something.

Still, like a riptide snatching at a swimmer, Richie’s hands remain particularly compelling. They snake under Eddie’s ribs and up to his shoulders, fisting in the back of his shirt. They pull Eddie closer, inward, like the laws of physics brook argument, like there isn’t a giant wall of Richie in the way.

A liquid takes the shape of its container, Eddie thinks without prompting.

He isn’t even close to being inside Richie yet. This is going to blow him to pieces.

“Oh my  _ god,” _ he says as Richie coordinates a roll of his hips with a bite to Eddie’s throat. “Oh my god, Richie, hold on.”

He pops up immediately. “You good?” he says, and his pupils are enormous, and Eddie looks past Richie’s face to see that his shins are propped up against the armrest of the couch, crossed at the ankles, like he’s taking a photo in a field of flowers. It’s sort of absurdly charming.

“Uh, yeah, I’m great,” Eddie says, letting his head drop back to the couch cushion. “I just think—uh, bed? Bedroom? I’m—”

“Yeah, I can feel that,” Richie says, wiggling his hips side to side facetiously. “Okay. Bedroom.”

As Richie clumsily works himself onto his feet, Eddie can practically hear the steam coming off of every spot where the cool air of the apartment hits his skin. Richie offers a hand to pull him up, and Eddie takes it, stumbling as he stands like a baby deer.  _ What fucking year is it? _ He wants to ask.  _ Where am I? _

Richie jerks a thumb toward the little hallway leading off the main room. “Bedroom’s,” he says helpfully.

“Okay,” Eddie says, sounding more than a little dried-out. “Bathroom?”

“Right across,” Richie says.

Eddie sits on the toilet lid for a minute, just catching his breath, as he sticks his hand under cold tap water. He’s so turned on it feels like a fever, burning through his whole body, the cold of the sink basin shocking against his arm. 

He taps his feet against the floor. Richie has those tiles that always remind Eddie of a soccer ball, the little black-and-white hexagons. He digs his phone out of his pocket.

_ You should sweep your bathroom floor _

_ My feet are all gritty _

He types laboriously, not wanting to wake up Siri; Richie would hear from the next room. Complaining anchors Eddie, stupid as it sounds, making the tiles and the sink and the toilet cover feel a little more real. Richie texts back in seconds.

_ Richard Tozier: the joys of litterboxes _

Sure enough, when Eddie cranes his neck around the sink, there’s a little purple hutch with a door in the front. He’s never had pets, but he thinks this looks like a nonstandard litter box. A Richie Tozier one.

_ You know for all the cat parpa-  _ he types, then stops to see if autofill will give him the word he’s looking for. It stubbornly offers “parka.”

_ For all the cat parep- _

Still nothing. He gives up and googles it.  _ -paraphernalia lying around your house I don’t actually see any cats _

That sounds like he’s disappointed not to see the cats, and he’s not, he doesn’t think, so he follows it up with:  _ Do you pretend to have pets to give people a false sense of security _

This reply is just as immediate.

_ Richard Tozier: did u have to google how to spell paraphernalia _

The interaction strings itself out long enough that Eddie can wash his hands, borrow Richie’s mouthwash—pouring from a height so as to avoid germ transmission—and poke at the door on the litterbox with his foot, feeling much calmer than before.

Richie is sprawled out across the bed when Eddie enters, looking idly up at his phone. When he hears the door creak open, he sits up on his elbows and smiles. “So this is where the magic happens,” he says, with his long legs and his mussed-up hair and his stomach pushing at his t-shirt, and Eddie doesn’t even know where to begin touching him. There’s a dresser to his right, so he sets his phone face-down on top of it. Then he undoes the buckle of his watch, slowly and precisely, and sets that on the dresser too. He can hear fabric against fabric on the bed, and he looks over to see Richie seated attentively at the end, feet flat to the floor.

“Do I get the full striptease?” he says when Eddie looks over.

Eddie rolls his eyes and takes a sock off.

“No, this still works for me,” Richie says. “I find your little hobbit feet highly arousing.”

The balled-up sock hits him square in the forehead, and he falls backward to the bed as if shot. “Ouch, Babe Ruth, not the money-maker,” he says.

Eddie walks over to the bed, right between Richie’s legs, and stares down at him. His eyes are round and blue and pleased. “Babe Ruth’s primary legacy was as a great hitter, not a great pitcher,” Eddie says.

“Oh baby, tell me more about pitching and catching,” Richie says.

“I know you know I said hitting,” Eddie replies, hand creeping toward his own fly.

Richie’s up like a shot. “No, no, I want to do that part!” he says, and puts a hand protectively over the button. It’s close enough to Eddie’s cock to make his fingers clench.

“Okay, so do it,” he says. “I have work in the morning.”

Richie sticks out his tongue and pulls himself closer by Eddie’s belt loops. “Foreplay, man,” he says. “Will you please let me work my magic?”

He cuts Eddie’s response off at the pass by grabbing his dick through his pants, which is as effective as anything. Eddie’s hands fly instinctively to Richie’s shoulders, digging into the muscle there as Richie finds the shaft and traces his thumb along it. “Okay?” Richie says.

“Really okay,” Eddie replies, schooling his breathing.

With his other hand, Richie does flick the button free, and then he snaps the elastic of Eddie’s underwear. Eddie jumps, then feels the hot puff of Richie’s laugh against the exposed skin between his shirt and his briefs. Richie leans forward to plant a wet kiss there, just low enough to give Eddie a jolt. He looks pleased when Eddie grabs suddenly onto the curls at the back of his head, and licks another stripe along Eddie’s stomach as he undoes the zipper. He pushes Eddie’s pants out of the way just enough, then reaches around to grab at his ass, which should be purely stupid and is not. Eddie’s cock isn’t quite weeping through the fabric, but there’s the start of a wet patch, which Richie kisses without warning—open-mouthed, tongue dragging against the head of his cock through the cotton.

Eddie whines, short and high, and his hands clench in Richie’s hair.

Frustratingly, he moves upward from there, nosing at Eddie’s t-shirt and kissing the path of exposed skin. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s thighs, hands curling into the sensitive skin under the hem of his briefs, and Eddie jumps, and Richie starts, staring.

“No,” Richie says.

Eddie’s eyes snap open; he looks down in alarm.

“No fucking way,” Richie repeats.

Resisting the urge to stomp his foot, Eddie asks: “What?”

“Take off your shirt,” Richie says immediately, pushing at the bottom hem of it himself. “Do you have fucking abs?”

“Everyone has abs,” Eddie says, but he can feel his face heating up, and he pulls the shirt off to hide it for a second.

“Not like that, you sexy fucking psychopath!” Richie is running his hands over them now, and as much as Eddie’s dick misses the attention, he preens a little. “What kind of professor looks like this?”

“I don’t know, there are other ones,” Eddie says, but Richie’s not really listening.

“I’m gonna come on those,” he finally says,Eddie’s skin turns electric for a half-second.

He thinks about saying something paleolithic about how badly he wants it, but the urge passes.

Instead, he takes a high shaky breath and says, “You’re not going to be coming anywhere unless you— _ hngh.” _

This, they’ve done before, Eddie’s hands in Richie’s hair, the elastic of his underwear pushed down just far enough to let Richie mouth at his balls as he pulls at Eddie’s cock. It’s filthy-good, precome dripping occasionally past Richie’s fingers and onto his cheek, and Eddie pets at Richie’s shoulder as he heats up again. He’d flagged, ever so briefly, in the bathroom, but now he feels red-hot and desperate, watching the dark feathers of Richie’s hair peek out between his fingers, listening to the noises he makes when he finally sucks at the head. Like it’s good. Like Eddie’s—

He doesn’t deepthroat as easily as Eddie does, which is more than fine, because it’s like he’s depriving himself, little needy groans vibrating through the heat of his mouth around Eddie, jaw slack and eager. Eddie never used to understand the appeal of saying that someone looks slutty in bed, but Richie does. He presses a hand to Richie’s cheek to feel his jaw working, and that’s almost too much.

“Hey,” Eddie says, tapping under his jawbone. Oh, god, he can feel movement there, too, and he puts a little more weight into his other hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Hey, Rich, if you actually want—you have to pull off.”

“Sorry,” Richie says, absurdly, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Got a little distracted.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says, trying to hold onto his balance. “You have to give me a minute.”

He pets at Richie’s shoulders again, at his jaw, and closes his eyes to think. “Take off your clothes,” he says abruptly. “Right?”

“Yeah, that’d be a good next step,” Richie laughs, and he stands up from the bed.

They shed as fast as they can, and Eddie feels a little high as he sees Richie appear from under his clothes, broad and dusted with dark hair, cock hanging thick and needy when he pulls his pants off. Eddie’s seen bits and pieces, of course, but it’s different when it’s all there at once. The air in the room goes soupy. It’s like having an hour to look at the Vatican museum: overwhelming, but not nearly enough.

“What?” Richie says, when Eddie’s been nonverbal for a minute.

“You—” he says helplessly. “Lie down.”

“This is exactly like a dream I’ve had once a week since puberty,” Richie says, but he does, spreading solid and beautiful over his bed.

Eddie kneels at the edge of the mattress just to look again. “You’re,” he says. “You’re, like—” and he clears his throat.

He crawls closer to Richie, skimming a hand over all the parts that make him feel crazy, which is most of them. When they kiss, Richie’s mouth is slow and lazy, falling open to Eddie trustingly. Eddie dips into it from above, delving with his tongue and pulling back like a hummingbird.

This is another thing they’ve done before: Eddie leaving a trail down the column of Richie’s neck, Richie’s head falling back to let him, only this time there’s no collar in the way, and so Eddie keeps going. Richie’s collarbones are big like the rest of him, and Eddie presses his nose into the hollow above, breathing deep, as he bites them. He moves down Richie’s chest contentedly, taking up the stinging taste of salt as he goes. It’s soft and sturdy at once, and it gives where Eddie sucks marks into it, because he can, because nobody will see those. Except Richie, he thinks. He imagines Richie seeing them as he gets dressed in the morning and feeling a spark shoot down between his shoulder blades.

_ “Shit,”  _ Richie breathes, so Eddie laves his tongue over the other nipple, too. That one makes Richie squirm, and Eddie sucks on it gently, reaching down between Richie’s legs to stroke him at the same time. 

“Eddie, Jesus Christ,” he says. “You trying to kill me?”

Eddie blinks at him, aware that there’s a witty response he’d normally have ready, but, well, he’s holding Richie’s dick, and he’s almost certainly going to fuck him quite soon, and so instead he dips his hand down behind Richie’s balls and says, “Yes.”

Richie goes slack-lidded and panting as Eddie nudges a thumb at his hole, not intending to breach it, just to wring another sound out. It offers very little resistance, and with almost no warning the tip of his thumb slides in. He is, technically, inside of Richie Tozier, and the fact throbs between his legs.

“Dude,” Eddie says, looking reproachfully down at Richie’s red, panting, sweating chest, which is all he can see since Richie has an arm thrown over his face.

“I already, uh,” Richie says. “Prepped. Before you got here.”

Eddie finds this inexplicably disappointing, even as his thumb slides in a little further and Richie clenches around him. “Oh,” he says, and bends it at the joint, and Richie hisses. “So we can just—”

“Ready whenever you are, cap’n,” Richie says, turning the arm over his face into a salute. “We all know how you love efficiency.”

“Right,” Eddie says faintly. “Lube?”

Richie points wordlessly at the nightstand behind Eddie, and then whines as Eddie’s thumb disappears. It’s the one Eddie brought, because of course it is, not that Eddie would have actually complained about Richie’s Astroglide or whatever the hell. The box of condoms is there, too, and Eddie pops it open and grabs two just to hedge his bets. When he turns back, holding his prizes, Richie’s staring at him.

“What?” he says.

“I want you to know that I do actually have my own condoms and lube,” Richie blurts. “Because I’m not an idiot or a virgin. I just didn’t know if you liked those specific ones for a reason, so.”

Abruptly, Eddie wants to kiss him, to throw a leg over Richie’s and hump lazily at the side of his hip as Richie cups his jaw.

“I’ve done a lot of market research,” Eddie says instead, settling onto Richie’s thighs and pouring a responsible amount of lube into his other hand.

“I figured,” Richie says, looking up at the ceiling. His face tightens, then smooths out when Eddie’s index finger circles his hole. “You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to. I mean, I’m all loosey-goosey down there right now.”

“Don’t say loosey-goosey,” Eddie says, sliding in slowly, just up past the fingernail. He can hear Richie’s breath leaving in a  _ whoosh. _ “Did you finish?”

“Dude, I’m telling you you can just stick the whole finger in,” Richie says. “Did I what?”

His voice ticks up at the end as Eddie takes his advice, pointer finger buried to the knuckle. It’s kind of mesmerizing to watch, the way Richie adjusts around him. “Did you come?” Eddie asks again. “I just want to know how long this is gonna take.”

Richie laughs, high-pitched, as Eddie crooks his finger. “Not long if you keep that up, dude. I came all over myself thinking about this and let me tell you, it’s a lot hotter than I imagined. Just give me two already.”

Eddie obliges, tugging at his cock as he sinks his middle finger, imagining that they’re the same motion. His wrist twinges, and he considers changing positions, but he likes to watch Richie take his fingers, the muscles shifting as he gets comfortable. He fucks those fingers in and out a few times, but Richie’s right, he doesn’t need it. He adds a third without fanfare, and one of Richie’s hands flies out to grab the sheets. Eddie watches him swallow, and the furnace around his fingers is matched only by the sheet of fire that goes through his whole body when he sees Richie’s throat move. He watches a strand of precome fall from Richie’s cock to his stomach and is pulled viciously in his gut by the need to be inside of him, a magnet to the North pole.

“How do you wanna—” he says, hoarse and desperate.

“I can, uh,” Richie says. “Why don’t I—”

He clambers to his hands and knees, grabbing a pillow and balling it up under his chest so he can half-lie down. It happens so fast that for a second Eddie’s just staring: at his hole, but also at the cock hanging down below it, and the soft stomach behind that. Richie looks back at him with his face half-smushed into the bedding, one eye crinkled up asymmetrically, and Eddie has to grip the base of his dick to stave off something embarrassing. He still finds it in himself, somehow, to blush.

The corner of Richie’s mouth ticks up. “Look, man, no rush, but if you don’t get inside of me right now, I think I will die. And then you’ll have to deal with the paperwork.”

Between that and the view, it’s a compelling argument. Situated between Richie’s open legs, Eddie rolls the condom on efficiently, then slicks himself up, and then—

And then.

Richie moans as the head of Eddie’s dick breaches his hole: long, low, and shooting around like a pinball in the nerve centers of Eddie’s groin. His eyes snap shut, and Eddie wants to protest: no, watch this, look at where I meet you, at the way I disappear, it’s sort of amazing.

“Good?” he says instead. “Bad?”

_ “More,” _ Richie says, slurring a little. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a little stroke around here.”

Eddie drags his gaze away from Richie’s face, because he really will get off a lot faster than he wants if he doesn’t, and watches his shoulders shift instead, little movements of sinking in, of being comfortable. He reaches out as far as he can and traces a line down Richie’s spine as he pushes in further. He moans again, a rumble this time, and Eddie’s other hand moves from his own cock, guiding, to Richie’s hip.

It’s not that he feels fundamentally different from the other people Eddie’s been inside. He feels hot and tight, a willing vise, but this isn’t new. Just good.

Still, though, the little hitches of breath as he works himself back and forth onto Eddie, movements so small that Eddie doesn’t think he realizes he’s making them, they feel like a luxury. An indulgence. Eddie doesn’t deserve sex like this, he thinks, as he whimpers, feeling Richie’s thigh muscles move under his hand, as he sinks into Richie completely. It feels like a destination. Like that little jolt of primal pleasure you get when you lean against the fence at the brink of something enormous. When you know it would be dangerous to fall into the Grand Canyon, but you know likewise that you have enough control over your body not to.

“Jesus,” he says, reaching down to press a hand to Richie’s stomach, either for leverage or because he wants to feel it.

“Can I move?” he says.

Richie rocks his hips and nods, face still pressed into that pillow, like it’s too much and he wants more.

So Eddie gives it to him. At first slow, the drag in and out, remembering how goddamn good this is, feeling the tightness in his torso build like sand in the bottom of an hourglass.

“Can you tell me how it feels?” he says, and it’s a little bit of a self-serving question, because when Richie releases a long, pent-up pornstar groan, Eddie moves faster without even thinking about it.

“Feels,” Richie pants through every stroke. “Feels like goosebumps. ‘M gettin’ all heebie-jeebie, your dick makes me fucking spooky. Don’t stop.”

Eddie does and does not understand what Richie means. He listens to his hips hitting Richie’s ass, the way the sweat makes it louder, and he feels a hot-cold crawling up his spine and his arms, and it does kind of feel like goosebumps. “You saying my dick is haunted?”

He sees Richie laugh, and then wince, and he slows, in and out at a snail’s pace. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Richie heaves a sigh. “I really don’t— _ hhh _ —I really don’t want to say this, because that feels  _ fucking  _ godly, but my knees are—” and he raises his hand awkwardly off the pillow to make a “so-so” motion.

“Oh,” Eddie says, “Okay, sure. Yeah, we can—how do you want to?”

“Pull out so I can fucking think for a second,” Richie snaps good-naturedly, and then whines as Eddie does. He turns over and leans back on his hands. “Do you have any ideas?”

Eddie, still kneeling, opens his mouth and closes it, thinking of being pressed down on and surrounded by Richie on the couch, the hot collapse and closeness of it.

“Don’t hold back,” Richie says.

“Well,” Eddie says, trying to stay focused on the goal and not how Richie’s cock would feel in his mouth when it’s  _ that  _ close to coming. “Before, when you were on top of me. That was nice.”

Richie waggles his eyebrows and puts on a voice somewhere between a carnival barker and a Jet from West Side Story. “Ya like to be crushed, Eds?”

Eddie could say “don’t call me that,” or he could say “yes,” and only one of those options gets his dick buried Richie again as soon as possible. So he says yes.

They’re sweatier, now, and Eddie considers this as Richie arranges their limbs: Eddie underneath him, one arm holding up Richie’s left leg, as Richie drapes over him like a blanket. He is very keenly aware of the heat of Richie’s cock pressed between their bodies. The sweatiness, he thinks, is better: a little gross, but also a sign of exertion, and full of pheremones, probably, and also he’s so fucking turned on with Richie’s face tucked into his left shoulderthat this position is only going to last so long.

“You sure you gonna be able to move under all of this?” Richie asks again, and his breath hits the side of Eddie’s neck and makes him shiver.

“Ready?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods and props himself up just enough for a kiss as Eddie lines up and slides, so good it feels criminal, back up to the root. He’s bundled up in the heat of it, the rightness, the feeling of Richie on him and around him at once. This position is a million times better, no contest, because he catches every little twitch Richie makes: the h-h-h-h-h as Eddie slides in, just a skip in his breath as he licks the roof of Eddie’s mouth. At first he lets Richie settle, rotating his hips around to gauge how it feels. He sucks at the joint between Eddie’s neck and shoulder, moving gently, and Eddie realizes he’s rutting between their stomachs.

There’s a low, pleased rumble in Richie’s chest, almost a purr, and Eddie’s hips twitch up. “Yeah?” he asks, voice made of cobwebs at this point.

“Yeah,” Richie breathes, exhaling hot into Eddie’s skin.

“Okay,” Eddie says, and he plants one foot on the mattress.

He fucks up into the tight heat of Richie’s body with everything he has in his exceptionally wound-up, brutally turned-on body. This would be worth it on its own, the way sliding in makes the hairs on his arm lift, but then there are the little sounds every stroke punches out of Richie. “Fuck,” he says, “Uh. Hnnh. Hh. Eds, fucking—fuck me—like that, god, please, fuck, fuck, mh, that feels—god you’re perfect—Eddie I’m—”

Eddie gets full-body shivers, the way Richie’s tiny monologue falls into his ear like a physical artifact. “Yeah?” he says, encouraging, and it makes him feel kind of pointlessly macho, but then Richie moans something that might once have been  _ yeah _ into his neck, and so Eddie does it again, and again.

Eddie can feel Richie’s whole body shaking, his stomach tensing up, and so he sucks desperately on the skin under his ear. He’s not saying words anymore, just a series of fucked-out breaths between his teeth as he tries to latch onto Eddie’s neck. Eddie distinctly feels a lighter touched to the end of his fuse. The little white light, the spark, getting closer and bigger as his thrusts become shorter and more emphatic. He tries to say something, but all he can get out is, “I’m—” and Richie whispers something like  _ do it, come inside me, do _ — and then suddenly Richie is bearing down on Eddie ferociously, rolling his hips frantically to fuck into the space between their stomachs. He comes, as promised, onto Eddie’s abs.

It’s as Richie’s coming down, biting at Eddie’s lips and still twitching down onto him, that Eddie’s release starts to hit him. “Yeah, c’mon, I showed you mine, show me yours,” Richie says, like a fucking idiot, and Eddie scrabbles at Richie’s back with blunt fingernails and buries himself as deep as he can and comes so hard the world whites out.

The first thing he feels as he comes back to reality is the weight, still on him, pinning him down. He exhales as deeply as possible, letting Richie press the air out, and then turns his head to take a deep inhale of the scent of Richie’s hair—the remnants of shampoo and the sweat Eddie had brought out of him.

“Move,” he says finally, when everything stops spinning. He pushes at Richie’s shoulder, and Richie rolls off agreeably, looking half-asleep already. “You wanna get cleaned up?” Eddie asks.

Richie shakes his head. “Sleep.”

This seems in-character, but Eddie’s thinking about the mess Richie left on both of their stomachs, and he pries himself out of bed to grab a washcloth.

“Thanks,” Richie says, uses it, and throws it on the floor.

“Jackass,” Eddie says, and it sounds more fond than he’s completely comfortable with.

As Eddie starts moving around the room, gathering the garments thrown around like hurricane debris, Richie props himself up on one elbow. “You leaving?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and doesn’t say sorry even though he sort of wonders if he should.

“You don’t have to,” Richie says as Eddie fumbles around on top of the dresser for his watch and his phone. Miraculously, he does peel himself out of bed after he watches Eddie fumble with the watch long enough. “Need help?”

“You can stay over if you want to,” Richie says, but he’s helping Eddie buckle his watch to leave. “Like, if you don’t want to drive home right away, you can sleep here for just, like, a couple of hours.”

Even in the very low light of his bedroom, Richie looks warm and real and comforting.

“No,” Eddie says honestly. “I can’t.”


End file.
